Mani g’illa M’barek?

OK, so it’s been a long time since my last post. I thought I was going to be able to update this more frequently, and hopefully I will once I get to my final site in May, but training has been very intense and internet access has been unreliable to say the least. Insha’llah I’ll be able to update more frequently!

Mani g’illa M’barek? [Where is M’barek?]

Well, for starters, I can’t tell you. For security reasons, Peace Corps doesn’t allow volunteers or trainees to release the name of their village, but I can tell you that I’m in an exceptionally beautiful town next to a green river that winds through the Middle Atlas Mountains to a glistening lake at the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains. The High Atlas trap the rains on the North side from crossing over into the Sahara—as a result, the Middle Atlas are as lush and forested as the Sahara is barren and desolate. So this is where I get to spend 2 months of Community Based training (CBT), living with a host family and learning Tamazight (the Berber dialect spoken primarily in the Atlas Mountains). Life is pretty sweet.

Every week, we travel to our hub site for a larger group training session and the 20 minute journey never gets old. We start with 5-6 people in the grand taxi, usually pick up another 2-3 along the side of the road, and careen around the mountainside roads at speeds that would surely break the speedometer, if it weren’t already broken. We fly past men chasing their sheep out of the road and into the donkeys, honk at men chasing sheep into the road while riding a donkey, and basically all combinations of men, sheep, taxis and donkeys you can possibly think of.

Fortunately, the view is spectacular and easily takes my mind off of the fact that my door just flew open as we went around a curve. The road hugs the verdant mountainside, and to our right is an azure lake with the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains in the background. The soil burns red as paprika from the weekly souk (the market- an experience I will describe another time) and the grass as green as, well, very green grass. The landscape is positively saturated with color, and all this is a mere 15 minute walk from my house on the mountain.

Well, that’s about all I have time to say right now. I’ll write more details about my host family, and what I’m studying here, and hopefully post some great pictures from the moussem we had this weekend (a festival that included men charging on horseback and firing rifles as women yelled high-pitched lalalalalas) and a spontaneous fake wedding that lasted 3 hours and ended 15 minutes ago in which I was given a djellaba (traditional Berber dress—not dissimilar from what Obi-wan Kinobi wears in Star Wars), a headdress, henna, and somehow I became the best man. I actually was just going to come here to check my email and I ended up in a wedding. Such is life here in the bled (countryside)!

So for now, I’ll leave you with another Moroccable Moment regarding my awesome host Dad. Insha’allah everyone is well!

Moroccable Moment #2: My host dad is the Moroccan Papa Smurf

Baba-inu (my Dad) is a great guy, and quite the character. Baba is in his late 60s or early 70s, always wears a slightly tilted, wool cap, a plaid sport jacket, and an effusive personality. I am getting a lot better at the language(s) spoken here, but during the first week or so the following was a very frequent sequence of events with Baba:

I’m sitting in the living room, eating bread and drinking tea. Baba enters the room, pauses, silent for a moment, clasps hands together, opens eyes wide and gazes at me expectantly. I wait, completely unsure of what Baba is expecting… Baba’s hands break free from each other and fly into the air on either side of his face

Baba: “Labas?!”

M’barek: “Labas! L’hamdullah. Ima shyyin? Kulshi bixir?”

Baba: “Ah! Kulshi bixir, l’hamdullah.” [insert French question that I don’t understand here]

M’barek: “Ur fhmg… g Tamazight?”

Baba: [insert Tamazight or possibly Darija question that I barely understand here]

M’barek: [Blank stare]… “hmmm ur fhmg….”

Baba: [hands clasped, he gazes at me silently, intently, as if there’s a chance that I do actually understand and just don’t remember where I stored the necessary information—I imagine if he had a flashlight he would probably shine it through my eyes and into my brain to find the information himself. Hands fly up again, palms out, he stares a little longer—one more chance... Hands return to clasped position; nodding, he says]

“iHla wawal, iHla wawal” (which basically means “Good talk, good talk” in Tamazight).

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iHla wawal, indeed. Llay eaown,

M’barek